What This Hour Meant
by Catching Fireflies
Summary: '"Not all those who wander are lost, you say. But when my feet are sent down a road which I cannot wander upon, that I must follow, I will then be truly lost, following star and moon in the dark."' The Fellowship was to leave the next day, and the morning would bring a new path for the heir of Isildur.


**Author's Note:**

**This is my first true venture into the Lord of the Rings fandom- unless you count my crossover with The Hobbit.**

**I take some dialogue straight from the book, which I claim no ownership of.**

**Also, the title of this oneshot [What This Hour Meant] is adapted from the quote from The Fellowship of the Ring that inspired my writing: ["Aragorn sat with his head bowed to his knees; only Elrond fully knew what this hour meant to him."].**

**And thanks to Shady for looking this over for me.**

* * *

**What This Hour Meant**

* * *

Aragorn knew that Boromir son of Denethor doubted in him. The look of mistrust in the Steward's son's eyes was obvious, but he felt no anger. It was right for the man of Gondor to be unsure of the line of Elendil. The heirs of Isildur had been in the North with their kinsmen instead of ruling in the South. However, the time was coming soon when someone would end up sitting upon the empty throne of Gondor- a time when Elendil's sword Narsil would be reforged. And according to his lineage, he himself would wield this blade. He would continue the line of kings.

Before he could speak and say that he understood and forgave Boromir's doubt, the old hobbit sitting beside Frodo stood. With a bit of an annoyed look on his wrinkled face, he recited:

_"All that is gold does not glitter,_

_Not all those who wander are lost;_

_The old that is strong does not wither,_

_Deep roots are not reached by the frost._

_From the ashes a fire shall be woken,_

_A light from the shadows shall spring;_

_Renewed shall be blade that was broken:_

_The crownless again shall be king."_

Bilbo had likely felt the need to stand up for his friend. Only vaguely registering the hobbit's next words -both to the Council and to Frodo- his mind recalled the time that Bilbo had shown him that very poem. _"Well, don't you like it?" _he'd asked impatiently. _"After all, I wrote it for you, though it may not be my best work." _Aragorn remembered himself smiling and nodding, telling Bilbo that someday, it would be fitting. Bilbo had looked at him strangely for a moment, then grinned back. _"You are so often grim!" _he had remarked. _"You smile rarely. You are not quite the same person you left behind in Imladris, my friend, Dunadan."_ He had paused. _"Y__es, I __think I shall call you that more often. It suits you, much better than most of the other names that people have given to you. And it is fitting: Man of the West, for that is what you will always be, even when Rivendell is just a memory to you." _

That day had been years ago, and Aragorn had gained many more names. He was Aragorn to his kin; he was Strider to the Breelanders; he was Thorongil to the folk of Gondor and the Riders of Rohan; he was Estel to the Elves of Imladris; he was the Dunadan to the northern Rangers and also to Bilbo Baggins. Unbeknownst to Bilbo, however, Rivendell would never be naught but a memory; it would forever remain in his heart. But from that day on, he had attempted to not appear so somber and grim when he was with Bilbo. The hobbit seemed to appreciate his smiles more than his scowls, even as Aragorn became worn from battle and weary, and Bilbo himself grew older and more bound to the One Ring, though Aragorn did not know this at the time.

It was for this reason that, before he spoke to acknowledge Boromir and his misgivings, he made sure to catch Bilbo's eye and give him a brief smile.

* * *

It was far past the day of the Council when Aragorn returned to Rivendell, after a scouting mission. The Nazgul were scattered, eight of nine of their fell black horses accounted for. Though the land was still gripped in the cold days of winter, he knew that Frodo the Ringbearer and his companions would need to set out soon. He also knew that he would be among them, for many miles.

His road would ultimately take him to Minas Tirith: the White City of Gondor which had once been Minas Anor, Tower of the Setting Sun. He had looked upon it years ago, in his days as Thorongil. Now, it seemed that fate would lead him to that place again, but this time, he could not conceal himself behind false names. He would return to Gondor, wielding the newly reforged Narsil -now called Anduril- and lead his people to war against the Shadow of Mordor. It was inevitable. The day when the throne of Gondor would no longer be empty was fast approaching on the horizon ahead.

But he felt that his fate concerned the Ring greatly. For it had been Isildur who had not destroyed the Ring. There was a reason why it was now called Isildur's Bane. And he, Aragorn, being the heir of Isildur, could not let himself fall to the same fate as his ancestor. The power of the One Ring was great, and the blood of Numenor had already proven to fail against it. Aragorn knew that he must accompany Frodo, but their roads would diverge. His own path would go to Minas Tirith whilst Frodo Baggins's path went to the Black Land of Mordor.

There was the sound of light footsteps upon the floor, and Aragorn turned suddenly. Caught up in dark thoughts, he had half expected an orc or all nine Black Riders to be facing him, no matter how irrational the thought was. Thankfully, the thought lasted but a moment, and when he looked ahead, he saw no one. But looking down, his eyes met the eyes of a frail, elderly hobbit: Bilbo Baggins.

The wizened face of Bilbo shifted into a smile, then a chuckle. "Why, Dunadan, you look troubled!" he said, but he was light of heart, and his eyes were bright. "Have you come to the Hall of Fire to ponder? I have always said that this is the best place to do so." His smile dissipated slightly. "You are thinking of the journey ahead, aren't you?"

Aragorn nodded, his expression betraying no emotion. "I have walked upon many a dark road, Bilbo," he said with a barely detectable sigh, "but I have always had some hope that I will return. On this journey, I know not what my paths will lead to, but I know certainly that they will be darker than anything I have yet encountered." He paused. "I may not return, for reasons good or ill. I may be killed, or I may inherit the rule of Gondor and Arnor, and never have an opportunity to revisit my homeland."

He knew that Bilbo could see the conflict and struggle in his heart. "I see," the hobbit said with a nod, a frown creasing his mouth. His voice was solemn. When he was with Frodo, he would laugh often, but he took Aragorn's words very seriously. "You surely are troubled, my friend." He approached his small stool and pulled a larger chair next to it. "Sit. Then you will not tower over me, and we can speak with ease."

A brief, rather tense laugh escaped Aragorn. "I will still tower over you, as you put it," he said, "but we shall speak with ease." He sat beside Bilbo. The hobbit offered him a small amount of pipeweed, and he retrieved his pipe, but for a few moments, he did nothing but run his fingers over it. He did so even after he declined the offer. The man was anxious, and could not relax even for this moment.

Bilbo poured each of them a generous helping of wine. They drank in silence for a moment before Bilbo spoke. "As I said at the Council, I almost wish that I could go with you," he said. "Gondor sounds splendid- and I am sure that you will be a great king, like the men of Numenor of old."

"'Not all those who wander are lost.'" Aragorn murmured the words of Bilbo's poem as he refilled his empty glass and drank deeply. "If the day ever comes when the line of kings returns to Minas Tirith, I shall never wander again. What will I then be to you, my friend? Will I be truly lost then?" He paused to take another drink of wine. "We leave on the morrow. There is great chance that I will fall and never live to see Minas Tirith die with me. Or that I will live through these dark days and never again lay eyes on Rivendell. But it lifts my heart to know that Mithrandir -Gandalf, I mean to say- plans for us to seek refuge in Lothlorien."

A slightly mischievous smile sprung to Bilbo's face, not unlike those of the much younger hobbits he had met at _The Prancing Pony _in Bree. "You have fond memories of that place," he said with a knowing nod. "Of your betrothed."

Instead of causing Aragorn to smile back, the memory made him feel all the more wretched. To think of Arwen was to think of another set of words of parting, and a rather painful one at that. "Yes," he said quietly, staring down into the wine with a frown set in his face. "I shall speak with her later. What am I to tell her? Naught but the same empty words which I will tell all: that I will be stumbling blindly on a path that has been paved for me for many a year. Not all those who wander are lost, you say. But when my feet are sent down a road which I cannot wander upon, that I must follow, I will then be truly lost, following star and moon in the dark." He knew that he was beginning to repeat himself, and was not sure if his anxiety or the wine had caused this.

Bilbo took his hand and peered up at him. Aragorn's gaze was numb. "My dear friend," the hobbit said, with a melancholy sort of smile, "I care deeply about you, and yet I will never truly understand what you say and feel! We are much different, you and I." He fell silent, his face grim. Aragorn could not have agreed more with his words. Bilbo was a true friend to him, and yet the hobbit would never know what it felt like, to wander the Wild alone and sometimes hopeless, knowing that fate had already started him on a journey of his own. It had started the day that he had been told of his lineage.

His glass of wine was pried from his fist by smaller fingers. "If I didn't know better than to think it, I would have said that you were drowning your apprehension in wine, Dunadan!" Bilbo said with a twinkle in his eye. Aragorn shook his head in dissent. The idea was not appealing to him. Bilbo suddenly looked up. "Oh, I did not hear you come in," he said with a bow of his head, his face growing sincere. "Lord Elrond."

Aragorn turned, standing. His foster-father was standing before them. He inclined his head for a moment also, but his words seemed to stick in his throat, so he did not speak.

Elrond's face was solemn. "I wish to speak with you alone, Estel," he said. Aragorn looked up, not knowing what to think of the use of his childhood name. No one had called him by that name in years. He did not often seek refuge at Imladris, and when he did, most referred to him as Aragorn. In most of the villages and towns that he passed through, such as Bree, he was called by many names, though Strider was by far the most polite. "I am sorry to dismiss you, Bilbo, but we must have no audience."

Bilbo stood, pushing his stool against the pillar. "No, no, of course," he said, smiling. He faced Aragorn for a moment, and his brow was furrowed in an odd expression: something almost akin to pity. Then he turned away. "Good evening to you, Lord Elrond," he said, then left the Hall of Fire.

For a moment, both were silent. The silence was broken, however, when Elrond spoke. "You are anxious, my son," he said quietly, though there was none to listen to their conversation. Neither of them sat, although Aragorn's chair was vacant at the moment.

_He called me his son,_ Aragorn thought, his resolve wavering for a mere moment. Elrond had been a father to him for many years, and they were to part on the morrow, likely never to meet again. He shook off the feeling of despair and gazed into Elrond's eyes. "Father," he whispered. He meant to say more, but the words would not avail him at that moment. "Yes, I am troubled."

"You have much to be troubled about," Lord Elrond said with a sage nod. "Yet I must tell you this: do not fear the roads ahead, for they will lead to places of both darkness and light. I know not what tax this journey will bring upon you, but you need not fear it. Mithrandir shall guide you, but you also will lead, though perhaps not in the same manner."

Aragorn shook his head. "I do not fear the darkness or the Shadow," he said stoically. "I fear that which comes at the end of the roads which I must take."

At this, Lord Elrond looked mildly surprised. "Surely you do not fear the Doom of Men, Estel," he said. "You have lived through long, hard years, and such fear must be behind you."

"No: not that sort of end," Aragorn corrected, struggling with how to word his torments. "I only wonder of what is to come when the journey ends. If all that we hope for comes to pass, and the Ring is destroyed and I have returned to Minas Tirith, what shall happen then? For I have long been naught but a Ranger, and to become the King would make my life into empty days, repeating until the Doom of Men falls upon me. What shall become of the Line of Valandil? Shall it wither and die away as does a flowering plant when winter approaches? Shall I be the last of the descendants of Elendil?"

He immediately rued his last words and wanted to blame the wine for his loose tongue. Why else would he have been so utterly impudent to Elrond? For it was his daughter, the fair Evenstar, to whom he was betrothed. But although Elrond's face was grave, it did not show any anger. "You have only the fear of a different life," he said. "For long years, you have roamed the lands and with false names served under different lords. If the Shadow is defeated for good, you shall give this life up. It will pass."

Elrond's gaze seemed to pierce Aragorn's very heart. "As I recall, you had similar feelings on the day which I first spoke of your heritage," he said, and there was a trace of amusement in his voice. "You feared for others first, yes- and then thought of yourself. However, now that a new sort of life is to begin for you, you cling to the one that you once dreaded. You have grown to care deeply for your way of life, despite its faults, have you not?"

Aragorn nodded, wondering what point his foster-father was coming to. "I have," he asserted.

"Then, assuming that you survive this Quest and become King, there will come the time when the Doom of Men falls upon you," Elrond said, his voice almost detached from the emotions that his words brought on. Aragorn, as he had said, did not fear death, but still lamented the inevitable day when he would breathe his last. "When this time comes, however late or soon it may be, you will cling to your life."

Aragorn straightened his stance, standing tall, frowning. "I have said that I do not fear the Doom of Men," he said, perhaps a bit too sharply.

Elrond's expression became hard. "I was not implying that you are not brave of heart," he said firmly, with authority in his voice. "Yet I know that there will be a part of you that laments your inability to sail to Valinor, to be at peace in the Undying Lands.'

These words hit Aragorn like a dull blade between the ribs. As a younger man, barely out of Rivendell, he had almost fantasized that he, like the Elves who had raised him, would too depart for Valinor one day, though he knew deeper down that he would suffer the Doom of Men- the Gift of Men, as it had been so ironically named. After a skirmish with Orcs in the Misty Mountains, which he had narrowly escaped in his youthful folly, the delusion had all but departed his mind. He exhaled abruptly. "I cannot speak more of this," he said stiffly, though the words were bitter on his tongue.

Elrond met his eyes, his own never leaving his foster-son. Slightly unnerved by the wordless stare, Aragorn turned to leave the Hall of Fire, when he suddenly thought better of it. He turned back again and embraced Elrond tightly, resting his head on his shoulder. The Half-elf, though slightly surprised, returned the embrace. Aragorn felt almost as if he was completely safe, for the first time in many years. "Thank you, Father," he said softly, a lump forming in his throat. _I must not weep,_ he thought persistently. Instead, he forced himself to speak again. "Yet I fear that we may not meet again after tomorrow."

After a moment of hesitation, Elrond spoke. "I do not think it so," he said. "Nothing is certain, my son, but I believe that we shall meet again." Aragorn nodded, not trusting his voice as he clung to Elrond. This went on for another silent minute. Then they parted reluctantly. Elrond smiled, and Aragorn brought himself to smile back. His foster-father placed a hand on his shoulder. "You must rest soon," Elrond said. "For your journey will be long and perilous."

"I shall," Aragorn said. Finally steeling himself to leave and return to his chambers for a last night of peaceful sleep, he left. Elrond remained in the Hall of Fire. Just as he was about to leave the Hall, he looked over his shoulder and called to Elrond. "Unlike the others, you know of what tomorrow shall mean to me," he said, barely loud enough for Elrond to hear. "I bid you a good night, Father."


End file.
